The Son

by Jo Nesbo

  For a long time he had believed that his secret was safe, right until the guy who had taken over his job with Nestor had come over to him in a bar and asked in a loud voice if he didn’t think it stank of dick curd when he rubbed his eyes in the morning. The guy and his friends had roared with laughter. Kalle had smashed a beer bottle against the bar and glassed him, pulling the bottle out and glassing him again and again until he was quite sure the guy had no eyes left to rub. The next day Nestor visited Kalle and told him that the boss had heard the news and that Kalle could have his old job back, seeing as it was now available and that he approved of his resourcefulness. Since that day Kalle never closed his eyes until he was absolutely certain that everything was under control. But all he could see now was the pleading woman on the grass and a solitary jogger with a hoodie.

  ‘Two hundred grand?’ Pelvis guessed.

  Moron.

  After walking through Oslo’s eastern centre and the more dubious but character-building streets of Gamlebyen for fifteen minutes, they entered an abandoned factory area through an open gate. Tallying up shouldn’t take them more than an hour. Apart from them there was only Enok and Syff, who sold speed by Elgen and Tollbugata, respectively. Afterwards they had to cut, mix and wrap new bags for tomorrow. Then he could finally go home to Vera. She had been sulking recently. The Barcelona trip he had promised her hadn’t happened because he had been busy dealing all spring, so he had promised her a trip to Los Angeles this August instead. Unfortunately his criminal record had led to his visa application being turned down. Kalle knew that women like Vera weren’t patient, they had options, so he had to screw her regularly and dangle trinkets in front of her greedy almond eyes to keep her. And that took time and energy. But also money, which meant more work. He was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  They crossed an open area with oil-stained gravel, tall grass and two lorries with no tyres permanently parked on Leca blocks, and jumped up onto a loading ramp in front of a red-brick building. Kalle entered the four-digit code on the panel, heard the lock buzz and they opened the door. Drum and bass sounds pounded towards them. The council had converted the ground floor of the two-storey factory into rehearsal rooms for young bands. Kalle had hired a room on the first floor for a peppercorn rent under the pretext of running a band management and booking agency. They had yet to secure any band a single booking, but everyone knew these were difficult times for the arts.

  Kalle and Pelvis walked down the corridor towards the lift while the front door slowly closed on stiff springs behind them. Through the noise Kalle thought for a moment that he could hear running footsteps on the gravel outside.

  ‘Three hundred?’ Pelvis volunteered.

  Kalle shook his head and pressed the button for the lift.

  Knut Schrøder laid down his guitar on top of the amplifier.

  ‘Fag break,’ he said and headed for the door.

  He knew that his fellow band members were rolling their eyes at each other. Another fag break? They had a gig at the youth club in three days and it was a sad fact that they had to rehearse like maniacs so as not to sound completely crap. Knut thought the other band members were a bunch of choirboys: they didn’t smoke, rarely drank alcohol and had never seen a joint let alone touched one. How could that ever be rock ’n’ roll? He closed the door behind him and heard them start the song from the top without him. It didn’t sound too bad, but was totally lacking in soul. Unlike him. He smiled at the thought while he passed the lift and the two empty rehearsal rooms along the corridor on his way to the exit.

  It was exactly like the best bit in the Eagles DVD Hell Freezes Over – Knut’s secret guilty pleasure – when the band rehearses with the Burbank Philharmonic Orchestra and the orchestra plays ‘New York Minute’ frowning with concentration and Don Henley turns to the camera, wrinkles up his nose and whispers: ‘. . . but they don’t have the blues . . .’

  Knut passed the rehearsal room whose door was always open because the lock was damaged and the hinges bent so that it was impossible to close it. He stopped. There was a man inside with his back to him. In the past vagrants looking for instruments or equipment that could readily be converted into cash constantly broke into the building, but that had stopped once the booking agency on the first floor had moved in and spent money on a new, solid front door with an entry-code lock.

  ‘Hey, you!’ Knut said.

  The guy turned round. It was difficult to work out what he was. A jogger? No. Yes, he was wearing a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, but he wore smart, black leather shoes. Only vagrants dressed that badly. But Knut wasn’t scared, why should he be? He was as tall as Joey Ramone and wore the same leather jacket. ‘What are you doing here, man?’

  The guy smiled. Which meant he couldn’t be a member of a biker gang. ‘Just a bit of clearing up.’

  That sounded plausible. It was what happened to the communal rehearsal rooms; everything was trashed or stolen and no one ever took responsibility for keeping them clean. The window was still covered by sound-insulating sheets, but the only remaining instrument was a shabby bass drum where someone had painted ‘The Young Hopeless’ in Gothic lettering on the drumhead. On the floor among cigarette butts, broken guitar strings, a solitary drumstick and some duct tape, was a desk fan which the drummer had presumably used to stop himself from overheating. Plus a long jack cable which Knut could have checked to see if it was working, but which was bound to be faulty. Fair enough, jack cables were unreliable consumables, the future was wireless and his mother had promised Knut that she would sponsor a wireless system for his guitar if he quit smoking, an incident which had inspired him to write the song ‘She Sure Drives a Hard Bargain’.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late for a council worker to be still at it?’ Knut said.

  ‘We’re thinking of rehearsing again.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The Young Hopeless.’

  ‘Ah, you’re with them?’

  ‘I used to be their drummer. I thought I saw the back of the other two guys when I came in, but they disappeared up in the lift.’

  ‘No, they’re with a band management and booking agency.’

  ‘Oh? Could they be useful to us?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re taking new clients. We knocked on their door and were told to fuck off.’ Knut grinned, took a cigarette from the packet and stuck it between his lips. Perhaps the guy was a smoker and would have a fag outside with him. They could chat about music. Or kit.

  ‘I’ll go and check anyway,’ the drummer said.

  The guy looked more like a vocalist than a drummer. And it struck Knut that it might be a good idea if this guy were to talk to the booking people, he seemed to have something about him . . . some charisma. And if they opened the door to him, perhaps Knut himself could stop by later.

  ‘I’ll come with you to show you where it is.’

  The guy looked reluctant. Then he nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  The big goods lift moved so slowly that Knut had enough time to explain in detail why the Mesa Boogie amplifier was awesome and delivered a proper rock sound.

  They stepped out of the lift, Knut turned left and pointed to the blue metal door, the only door on the floor. The guy knocked. A few seconds later a small hatch at head height opened and a pair of bloodshot eyes appeared. Just like the time Knut had tried it.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The guy leaned closer to the hatch, probably in an attempt to see what was behind the man in the door.

  ‘Would you consider booking gigs for the Young Hopeless? We’re one of the bands that rehearse downstairs.’

  ‘Fuck off and don’t show your face here again. Capisce?’

  The guy, however, remained close to the hatch and Knut could see his eyes dart from side to side.

  ‘We’re quite good. Do you like Depeche Mode?’

  A voice rang out from somewhere behind the bloodshot eyes. ‘Who is it, Pelvis?’

  ‘Some band.’

  ‘Get
rid of them, for fuck’s sake! And get back to work, I wanna be home by eleven.’

  ‘You heard the boss.’

  The hatch slammed shut.

  Knut walked the four steps back to the lift and pressed the button. The doors opened reluctantly and he entered. But the guy had stayed put. He looked at the mirror the booking agency had put up at the top of the wall to the right when you exited the lift. It reflected their metal door, God only knew why. True, this wasn’t Oslo’s nicest neighbourhood, but for a booking agency they were remarkably paranoid. Perhaps they stored a lot of cash from gigs in their office? He had heard that well-known Norwegian bands were paid half a million for the biggest festival jobs. Another reason to keep rehearsing. If only he could get that wireless system. And a new band. With soul. Perhaps he and the new guy could join forces? The guy had finally returned to the lift, but was holding a hand in front of the sensors so the doors could not close. Then he withdrew his hand and studied the fluorescent lighting in the lift ceiling. On second thoughts, no. Knut had spent enough time working with psychos.

  He went outside to smoke his cigarette while the guy returned to the rehearsal room to clear up. Knut was sitting on the flatbed of one of the rusted trucks when the guy came out.

  ‘I reckon the others are late, but I can’t get hold of them because my phone battery is dead,’ he said, holding up a mobile that looked very new. ‘So I’m off to get some cigarettes.’

  ‘Have one of mine,’ Knut said, holding out the packet. ‘What kind of drums have you got? No, let me guess! You look old-school. Ludwig?’

  The guy smiled. ‘Thank you, that’s kind of you. But I only smoke Marlboro.’

  Knut shrugged. He respected people who were loyal to their brand, be it drums or cigarettes. But Marlboro? That was like saying you would only ever drive a Toyota.

  ‘Peace, man,’ Knut said. ‘Laters.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  He watched the guy walk across the gravel towards the gate, before he turned round and came back.

  ‘I’ve just remembered the code to the door is on my mobile,’ he said with a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘And . . .’

  ‘It’s gone dead. 666S. I thought of it myself. Do you know what it means?’

  The guy nodded. ‘It’s the Arizona police code for suicide.’

  Knut blinked several times. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yep. The “S” stands for suicide. My dad taught me that.’

  Knut saw the guy disappear out of the gate and into the light summer evening as a gust of wind caught the tall grass over by the gate and made it sway back and forth like a concert audience in response to some sentimental ballad. Suicide. Bloody hell, that was so much cooler than 666 Satan!

  Pelle looked in the rear-view mirror and rubbed his bad foot. Everything was bad; business, his mood and the address which the customer in the back had just given him, the Ila Centre. So, for now, they were stationary in what was practically Pelle’s regular spot in the cab rank in Gamlebyen.

  ‘You mean the hostel?’ Pelle asked.

  ‘Yes. But now it’s called . . . Yes, the hostel.’

  ‘I don’t drive anyone to the hostel without being paid up front. Sorry, but I’ve had some bad experiences.’

  ‘Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Pelle watched as his customer or, more accurately, potential customer rummaged around his pocket. Pelle had been in his cab for thirteen hours straight, but it would be a few more hours before he would drive home to his flat in Schweigaards gate, park the cab, stagger up the stairs on the folding crutches he kept under the seat, collapse on his bed and fall asleep. Hopefully without dreaming. Though that depended on the dream. It could be heaven or hell, you never knew. The customer handed him a fifty-krone note and a handful of change.

  ‘This is just over a hundred, it’s not enough.’

  ‘A hundred isn’t enough?’ said the now not so potential customer apparently with genuine surprise.

  ‘Long time since you last took a cab?’

  ‘You could say that. It’s all I’ve got, but perhaps you could drive as far as that gets me?’

  ‘Sure,’ Pelle said, put the money in the glove compartment since the guy didn’t look like he would want a receipt, and hit the accelerator.

  Martha was alone in room 323.

  She had sat in reception and watched first Stig then Johnny go out. Stig had been wearing the black shoes she had given him.

  The centre’s regulations allowed them to search a resident’s room without warning or permission if they suspected them of keeping weapons. But the rules also stated that searches should normally be carried out by two staff members. Normally. How do you define normal? Martha looked at the chest of drawers. And then at the wardrobe.

  She started with the chest of drawers.

  It contained clothes. Just Johnny’s clothes; she knew what clothes Stig owned.

  She opened the door to the wardrobe.

  The underwear she had given Stig lay neatly folded on one shelf. His coat was on a hanger. On the top shelf was the red sports bag she had seen him arrive with. She was reaching up to lift it down when she spotted the blue trainers at the bottom of the wardrobe. She let go of the bag, bent down and picked up the shoes. Took a deep breath. Held it. She was looking for coagulated blood. Then she turned them over.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and felt her heart skip a beat.

  The soles were completely clean. The pattern wasn’t even stained.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Martha spun round as her heart began beating wildly. She pressed her hand to her chest. ‘Anders!’ She bent double and laughed. ‘You scared me half to death.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he pouted and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘It’s almost nine thirty.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Someone said one of the residents might be keeping weapons in his room and it’s our duty to check.’ Martha was so flustered that the lie came effortlessly.

  ‘Duty?’ Anders snorted. ‘Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what duty really means. Most people think of their family and home when they talk about duty, not working in a place like this.’

  Martha sighed. ‘Anders, please don’t start . . .’

  But she already knew that he wasn’t going to give in, as usual it had taken him only seconds to get wound up. ‘There’s a job for you at my mother’s gallery whenever you want it. And I agree with her. It would be much better for your personal development to mix with more stimulating people there than the losers in this place.’

  ‘Anders!’ Martha raised her voice, but knew that she was too tired, she didn’t have the energy. So she walked up to him and put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t call them losers. And I’ve told you before, your mother and her customers don’t need me.’

  Anders snatched back his arm. ‘What people in this place need isn’t you, but for the state to stop bailing them out. Those bloody junkies are Norway’s pet project.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to have this discussion again. Why don’t you drive on without me and I’ll take a taxi when I’m done?’

  But Anders folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door frame. ‘So which discussion are you prepared to have, Martha? I’ve been trying to get you to set a date—’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Yes, now! My mother wants to plan her summer and—’

  ‘Not now, I said.’ She tried to push him aside, but he refused to budge. He stuck out his arm to block her path.

  ‘What kind of answer is that? If they’re paying for—’

  Martha ducked under his arm, out into the corridor and started walking away.

  ‘Hey!’ She heard the door of the room slam shut and Anders’s footsteps behind her. He grabbed her arm, spun her round and pulled her close. She recognised the expensive aftershave his mother had given him for Christmas, but which Martha couldn’t stand. Her heart almos
t stopped when she saw the black emptiness in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me,’ he snarled.

  She had automatically raised a hand to shield her face and now she saw the shock in his face.

  ‘What’s this?’ he whispered with steel in his voice. ‘You think I’m going to hit you?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Twice,’ he hissed and she felt his hot breath on her face. ‘Twice in nine years, Martha. And you treat me as if I was some bloody . . . some bloody wife-beater.’

  ‘Anders, let go, you’re—’

  She heard a cough behind her. Anders released his hold on her arm, stared furiously over her shoulder and spat out the words:

  ‘So, junkie, you want to get past or not?’

  She turned round. It was him. Stig. He just stood there, waiting. He moved his calm gaze from Anders to her. It asked a question. Which she answered with a nod; everything was fine.

  He nodded and stepped past them. The two men glowered at each other as he passed. They were the same height, but Anders was broader, more muscular.

  Martha watched Stig as he continued down the corridor.

  Then her gaze returned to Anders. He had tilted his head and was glaring at her with this hostile expression which he exhibited more and more often, but which she had decided was caused by the frustration he experienced at not getting the recognition he felt he deserved at work.